


sugar, sugar

by Mooncactus



Series: Recipe for Disaster [1]
Category: Miraculous Ladybug
Genre: Adrinette, F/M, Marichat, adrien agreste character piece, also the title of my autobiography, alt title: low blood sugar daddy issues and baked goods, ironically i crammed all these ships in and yet there's no ladynoir, ive been working on this for over a month please set me free, ladrien, the longest oneshot i have ever written
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-31
Updated: 2015-12-31
Packaged: 2018-05-05 05:01:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5362352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mooncactus/pseuds/Mooncactus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After discovering the identity of the man making his and Ladybug's life a living hell, Chat Noir overworks himself to the point of exhaustion - and dangerously low blood sugar levels.</p>
            </blockquote>





	sugar, sugar

**Author's Note:**

> EDIT 6/1: 70% done with the sequel (bc the predicted word count has increased, ha ha ha SOBS). We're getting there! 
> 
> EDIT 5/4: I am halfway done with the sequel, but progress has halted completely due to school. I'm out in a few weeks, though, and then finishing this fic is my first priority! Crossing my fingers for sometime in June!
> 
> EDIT 3/6: Officially about a 1/4th way through the sequel. Check the notes here or my tumblr (Mooncactus) for more updates! c:
> 
> HI AGAIN. i just wanted to thank everyone for the overwhelming reaction to mon dieu! this was supposed to be a short fic in the same vein, from adrien's pov with more angst. it ...... is not a short fic. it is not short at all.
> 
> you have megan to thank for that, because I sent her the 5k one, and she went "oh, this is good, but ..." and i went "yeah! I can fix that in like 1-2k". i ended up spending the next month writing 12k more words. Y...AY... but seriously Megan's a wonderful gift, thank you so much for betaing this and providing much needed moral support.
> 
> also, your gratuitous french phease for this evening is provided by "ooh la la", because Marinette uses it constantly in the french webisodes and I find it hilarious.

        Adrien fell into bed, pajama shirt half buttoned up his torso and wearing only one sock, at approximately 4:00 am.

        He woke up at 5:54 - precisely six minutes before his alarm went off - with the sense of false wakefulness that went hand and hand with sleep deprivation.

        He sat up from bed, rubbing his eyes and taking care not to wake Plagg from his perch on his pillow (although really, the kwami could probably sleep through a bomb going off). He pulled off his remaining sock with his opposite foot’s big toe, and stood up, feeling bizarrely lucid.

        He had spent most of the night chasing down Mr. Kubdel, who, following the legacy set by his children, managed to be _incredibly_ overpowered. He was a really nice man, though - offered them both private tours of the Louvre’s archives.

        Chat Noir had suggested to Ladybug that it sounded like a _purrfect_ date.

        (She had politely declined.)

        But her smile was wide and maybe a little loopy from being up so late, and he stood in the middle of the street for a solid minute just marveling at her.

        His Lady was so … _incredible_.

        Shutting off his alarm a minute before it sounded, Adrien took Plagg’s sleeping form into his hands. He tucked him safely into his shirt’s breast pocket (fixing the buttons he had skipped two hours ago) and then slipped out into the hall, closing the door behind him. Nathalie sometimes ran by his room in the mornings to make sure he had woken up, and he didn’t need her discovering a secret roommate.

        The kitchen, on the first floor and opposite end of the mansion, was about as far from his room as it could get - which made sneaking  midnight snacks next to impossible. But at this hour the Chef was already working, starting to prepare his breakfast before school. He saw Adrien and gave him a disapproving head shake before pushing a bowl of fruit before him. Adrien accepted it with a warm smile and watched as the man’s face expression softened slightly.

        Adrien, his father, and Nathalie were the only ones who lived in the mansion (well, and Plagg), but the rest of the staff typically arrived before Adrien had left for school. He wondered what their lives were like outside of running the Agrestes’ to to-the-minute perfection - but he didn’t even know which ones had a family. Most of the staff were on the surly and quiet side. He suspected his father had done that intentionally.

        Adrien returned to the staircase, biting into a bright green apple. The juice ran down his chin, icy cold, and he wiped it off with the back of his fist. He was still feeling bright eyed and bushy-tailed, but he had a feeling that wouldn’t even last through first period.

        Reaching the top floor, he turned back towards his room but paused when he heard a voice echoing through the house - his _father’s_ voice.

        He froze mid step.

        He sounded _angry._

        As if possessed, Adrien followed the sound, hesitating at his father’s office, the door slightly ajar. This was really weird - his father wasn’t usually in his office this early, and - who could he possibly be talking to?

        Gabriel Agreste looked exhausted. His glasses were askew on his nose, his usually perfectly coiffed hair mussed. And he was still wearing his clothes from the day before. Adrien’s ears picked up the conversation halfway through a sentence.

        “-and Chat Noir are getting sloppy. But these people are such _imbeciles_ \- focused on their own stupid wishes. It doesn’t even matter what kind of power I give them, they squander it every time-”

        The apple dropped from his hand to the rug with a muffled but still spectacularly loud _thud._

        Adrien stood there, gobsmacked, while his father trailed off and stared up at him. While Adrien waited in the doorway, in plain view with nowhere to hide.

        “Adrien,” he said, and his blood ran cold as his brain struggled to catch up with what he just heard. “What are you doing, walking around at…”

        The words faded in Adrien’s ears, replaced with the sound of blood rushing.

_What kind of power I give them._

        “ _Père_?” he said, his voice faint. “Who were you… who are you talking to?”

        He stepped into the office and saw a flash of pink dart beneath the desk. Gabriel pressed his lips together.

        “You’re must be hearing things,” said Gabriel. “You’re still half asleep.”

        A part of him wanted to agree - to give in to the easy dismissal and keep the words from processing, to live in blissful ignorance forever.

        But he knew he couldn’t.

        Adrien numbly shook his head. “No, no… you just said - you said you were the one behind the attacks. The one that ...”

        Chat Noir and Ladybug were fighting.

        That _he_ and Ladybug were fighting.

        Gabriel eyes’ narrowed, his lips still a tight line, and then he sighed.

        “I should be more careful,” he said, voice cool, “about keeping doors locked.”

        A pink creature - another kwami, some part of Adrien’s brain provided - darted back up and pressed itself against his father’s shoulder, like it was afraid of Adrien.

        His father looked at it, his eyes flashing with anger. “You shouldn’t be out.”

        It’s response was too quiet for Adrien to hear.

        It was impossible to tell the creature’s nature from the quick glances he was stealing - but it was nothing like the kwami he knew, he could tell that already.

        Because he knew Plagg could never help do what the masked man of Paris did. What _his father_ did.

        His heart was beating so hard he was terrified it would wake Plagg, still sleeping deeply in his breast pocket.

        “Close the door, boy,” Gabriel said, and Adrien stiffly obeyed.

        “I suppose,” he said, pushing his chair back and standing, “there’s nothing I can do about you learning this information.”

        Adrien’s eyes flickered to his desk. A single white butterfly stirred in a jar, the lid only lightly placed over the top.

        “I should be relieved that it took you this long to realize, actually,” Gabriel continued, unperturbed by his son’s shocked silence. “But I suppose it couldn’t last forever.”

        He sighed again, and then met his son’s eyes.

        “I don’t,” Adrien tried to speak, but the words weren’t coming out at a level above a whisper. He cleared his throat and tried again. “I don’t _understand.”_

        His father looked at him like he was simple. “You don’t have to. There is something that Ladybug and Chat Noir have that I want; I’m simply pursuing it.”

        “The, the entire time? It’s been you sneaking around? And you never…” he trailed off, swallowing hard. He was too shocked for the terror to register in his voice, and he realized for that he was grateful.

        Gabriel sighed again, giving the butterfly jar a quarter turn on the desk so it faced him. He contemplated it a while before speaking again.

        “I don’t expect you to understand or empathize with why I am pursuing Paris’s _beloved_ superheroes,” he said. “And I’m sure you’re as enamoured with Ladybug as every other citizen is.”

        The taste of his apple had gone bitter in his mouth.

        “You don’t have to agree with what I’m doing, Adrien. Or support it. But I do expect, as my son, a certain level of …. loyalty.”

        It took Adrien a long moment to realize what he was asking. “I … I won’t tell anyone, I promise.”

        His father would go to jail, he realized. Adrien would be …

        He would be all alone.

        Gabriel looked at him, not quite happy, but maybe a little less angry than he had been when Adrien had interrupted him.  “I’m glad you don’t get … involved, in these cases,” he said. “I wouldn’t want you getting hurt, of course.”

        The statement sounded so false to his ears that Adrien almost laughed - until he felt Plagg stirring, and his blood ran cold again. He took a tiny step back - terrified that his father’s kwami might be able to sense Plagg’s presence.

        How had he - how had this gone on for so long?

        His father’s eyes narrowed, and Adrien felt if he stood in the room a moment longer he would burst.

        “Yes?” said Adrien’s father, and his son screwed his eyes shut and fumbled blindly to find some sort of strength, some conviction for a lie.

        He wet his lips before speaking. “I - I need to get ready for school, and..”

        “Of course,” said Gabriel, removing his glasses. “Run along.”

        And that’s what he had done – Adrien Agreste had gone to school as usual, attended fencing lessons and even did a photoshoot, all with the same vacantly pleasant expression. Adrien was an ocean of calm, still as a stone.

        But Chat Noir? Chat Noir was a _mess._

        As soon as the photoshoot had ended - as soon as his responsibilities as Adrien Agreste were over - he had ran out and ducked into the nearest alley he could find.

        He hadn’t been able to speak to Plagg much throughout the day, but the even the kwami’s usual nonchalance was disturbed by this new discovery.

        Though not by much.

        “Wowww,” he said. “You’re screwed.”

        “ _We’re_ screwed,” Adrien corrected, tone bitter. “What do you think happens to you if he finds out that one of the Miraculous has been in his _own house_? We have to - we have to…”

        “We have to _what?”_

        He groaned, frustrated. “Stop him. Figure out how he ticks, or where he goes, or … something. I can’t believe I still don’t even know what _name_ he uses, and he…” he pressed a hand to his temple, feeling a headache that had started that morning building.

        “Get a move on, Plagg. Transform me.”

        Plagg crossed his arms. “One,” he said. “I see no cheese. Two, I see no _Akuma.”_

        Adrien ran his hands through his hair. “Does it matter? I can’t just - I can’t just sit around here as his son, doing _nothing._ What if he attacks again today?”

        Plagg blinked, slowly. “Fine,” he said, at last. “But you owe me _triple_ the regular amount of cheese.”

* * *

 

        Okay, so: Credit to Plagg, where it was due: Eating before transforming was a smart idea.

        Especially because Chat had skipped lunch to research early Akuma attacks on the school computers. It had been a few hours since he had transformed - stalking the city back and forth all the while - and his headache had gotten worse every minute that passed. And now Chat’s stomach was complaining up a storm, and _of course_ he didn’t have any money on him. He was wondering if he any restaurant owners owed him (or Ladybug, but y’know – same difference) when he smelled fresh bread. He drifted towards it like a dandelion on the wind, and found himself at a bakery’s back entrance. He leaned against the back wall of the alley and waited. The bakery looked familiar – though he couldn’t remember fighting any sort of baking themed Akuma – and there was a chance one of the employees might take pity on him.

        And he had mastered the ‘sad kitty’ eyes.

        It had just clicked in his exhausted brain how he knew this bakery when the door swung open, greeting him with a shriek of alarm.

        A loaf of bread followed, brandished in a pale hand like a saber. Chat had to lean back like he was in a limbo contest to avoid getting smacked in the cheek with the loaf. He blinked hard, and then his eyes met his attacker's.

        Marinette exhaled shakily, her other hand clutching at her chest. “You just scared the heck out of me,” she said, pointing the bread at him accusingly before dropping it on a table.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, and then her eyes widened. “Wait, what _are_ you doing here?” His classmate stepped out into the threshold and pushed him aside by his shoulder to get a better look. “Has there been another attack?”

        He shook his head, and then his gaze dropped to her hand, still lingering on his shoulder. She dropped it back to her side immediately.

        “You sound eager,” he said, and she flinched.

        “That’s - um - well, I - I never see any of them! I’m always, er, somewhere else, and I only catch the end of it on the news…?”

        He frowned. “Was being _kidnapped_ not enough for you?”

        “I wasn’t _kidnapped_ ,” Marinette said, picking up right where their last conversation had let off. She hopped up the step, back into the kitchen’s warm light. Her words sounded rehearsed. “It was a set up so he could go back to normal. He didn’t even want to hurt anyone, and wouldn't have made me go if I didn't want to.”

        But he had thought this conversation through before as well. “ _Stockholm syndrome_ ,” he said, sing-song.

        She crossed her arms. “He’s my classmate. And he’s actually a really nice, polite person. Unlike someone who likes to show up on doorways uninvited.”

        Chat Noir grinned at her, tilting his head. “You’ll warm up to me some day, I just know it.”

        “Don’t hold your breath,” she said with a wry smile, an expression he still could have _never_ imagined on his shy, sweet classmate’s face. Marinette, who was quiet and jumpy and he could have never imagine talking to her like this. Sure, she was always nice at school, and a talented designer, but … before meeting her as Chat Noir, he could have never imagined carrying a conversation with her.

        And they were always such sharp-tongued conversations, too. Not that he had met her that often - only two or three times, but every time she was more confident and snippy around him. Meanwhile, her school self could _barely_ stutter through a conversation with her classmate.  It was a mystery he had always intended to devote more time to: what made her act so different around his two halves. School Marinette might have opened up around Alya, but him? Ha.

        He thought about her comment about missing the attacks, and something began to click into place.

        “You’re friends with Alya, aren’t you?” he asked.

        She hesitated, and then nodded. “Why?”

        He went through the names of his classmates in his head. Nino. Alix. Alya. Nathanael. Kim. Mylene. Ivan, Max, Rose, Juleka, Sabrina ... but not, never, not once Marinette Dupain-Cheng.

        His eyes were steely. “You – er, you go to that school where a lot of the Akuma victims are from, right?”

        Her expression was wary – even suspicious – but she nodded. “Um. Yeah. It’s … weird. Scary, how common it is,” she said, looking down nervously. “Is everything okay?”

        “Of course,” Chat said, feeling the headache pounding behind his eyes. “I just … _you’ve_ never turned into one, have you?”

        Ladybug could handle an Akuma all on her own - he knew that perfectly well - and he always wondered if she had taken down someone while he was sleeping or at school.

        She shook her head, a confused half smile on her face, like she couldn’t ever imagine it happening to her.

        A bit of relief eased into his features. His father had never manipulated Marinette, never used her as one of his pawns in his game. Ladybug had never been forced to fight her.

        Yet.

        His blood ran cold, and he felt like his collar had grown tighter, the bell pressing hard against the hollow of his throat.

        A bolt of pain from his headache made him wince, and he was glad his mask covered most of his face. But Marinette still peered at him, curious. Worried.

        “Is anything wrong?”

        _Yes_. “Nope,” he said brightly, forcing a smile. “You must be very lucky.”

        Marinette’s smile didn’t quite meet her eyes. “You could say that.”

        Chat went to lean on the doorframe – some sort of easy, flirtatious pose that would mask his concerns – when he felt the world spin and give out on him. He stumbled forward, his only concern being _oh God don’t squish Marinette –_ when he felt tiny but surprisingly strong arms keeping him up.

        She had to take a few steps back, stumbling at his weight but held steady. His cool suit pressed into her soft cardigan, and he could feel himself trembling. Her hands were warm where they held tight around his arms, and he just wanted to lean his head against her shoulder and rest. Take a nap, maybe.

        But Marinette was backing him into a wall, unable to hold up his weight. She left him leaning against the wall like an old broom and then rested her hands on her hips, firing questions at him that he couldn’t keep up with. “Did you just _swoon_?” was the only one he managed to catch.

        “You are rather lovely, princess,” he said, words slightly slurred. “I couldn’t… oof.” He shut his eyes against the bright bursts of light as his vision spun.  “I’m … I’m going to lie down now.”

        “Wait!” Marinette yelped, but he had dropped like a puppet with its strings cut. His back slid down the wall until he sat on the floor, his head pounding even more painfully now. His head lulled, chin resting against the top of his sternum. But even from the ground the world spun.

        “Chat?” Marinette asked, her voice sounding far away and deeply concerned. “Are you – are you okay?”

        He winked before remembering she couldn’t see his face from this angle, and then tried to force another part of his body to move. Eventually he managed a weak thumbs up.

        Marinette sighed with relief, and then she was dropping to her knees, giving him a thorough look over. The back of her hand pressed against his cold sweaty forehead, and he saw her wince. Her nail caught briefly on the edge of his mask and hesitated there for a moment before pulling away.

        “You know,” he said, his head starting to clear ever so slightly. “I’m actually feeling slightly better. From the floor. Even if is covered in flour.” He held up his palm of his hand, dusted with white. “Chat Blanc. Ha ha.”

        She ignored him, and her hand moved by his throat, brushing his bell. It jingled slightly as her warm fingers pressed against his throat, checking his pulse. She was so close he could see the light freckles on the bridge of her nose – he had never noticed them before.

        His heart sped up again, and he wasn’t sure if it had anything to do with lightheadedness.

        “You’re not sick, are you?” she asked, her fingers still tip tapping at his head and neck, looking for answers.

        He shook his head.

        “Injured?” she asked, and then looked angry and terrified all at once. “If you got shot and wandered into my doorway without telling me…”

        He smiled despite the fact it really wasn’t funny. “No. I’m not hurt, I haven’t even been outside that long … I don’t know why I feel so awful.” Well, he did, but not _physically._

        Something sparked in Marinette’s eyes.  “When was the last time you ate?”

        He gave her an apologetic smile. “Six this morning?”

        Marinette glared at him, but he could see relief flash through her eyes at the simple, easy-to-fix explanation. She grabbed the loaf of bread by the door and nearly threw it at him.

        “I can’t believe this,” she continued, muttering to herself. “What kind of superhero - one who jumps off buildings and runs around and literally causes destruction in his wake, might I add -   _forgets to eat?”_

        He glanced at her over the top of the bread as he gnawed at it, not able to respond. He was tempted to ignore his perfect manners for once and talk with his mouth full, but figured he had already been enough of a burden on her without spitting crumbs everywhere. “I don’t _forget_ ,” he said, once he swallowed. “Or I mean – usually I’m fine, even when I …” he had sometimes gone almost an entire day without eating (thanks to a photo shoot) and had been fine. But he had only gotten about an hour and a half of sleep on top of not eating ...

        And he could only imagine what the amount of stress he was under was doing to his health.

Marinette had walked across the room while he had been thinking, and returned with a fruit tart that was crushed on one side and a cheesy bun. She thrust them at him and then immediately went back to search for more food.

        “Thank you,” he said, finally recalling his manners. “For the… for the pastries. Is it okay that you’re giving me all of this?” he asked, feeling a little guilty he was shoving it all in his mouth without really savoring the taste. The cheesy bun was a little stale but still amazing – better than anything the chef had created.

        “It’s all stuff we can’t sell,” Marinette said. “And we can’t always eat all of it, so … you’re doing us a favor.”

        “Then I’m happy to help,” he murmured, already feeling considerably less whoozy. She gathered up a couple more pastries and he accepted them, balancing them on his lap.  Having delivered the last of her gifts, she leaned against one of those metal wheely tables and appraised him, the pads of her fingers pressed against her mouth.

        “Something wrong?” Chat asked.

        “No,” she said, a little quickly. “I just … I’m glad you were here instead of fainting off a rooftop.”

        He laughed. “Same here. You’re my hero.”

        Her smile this time more closely resembled the sweet, shy one he was used to. “Are you feeling better?”

        He nodded, starting to sit up. “I should _purrobably_ get going before I eat half of your inventory.”

        “Probably,” she agreed, resting against the stone of the wall bordering the oven. “Feel better, okay? And take care of yourself.”

        Chat felt a flicker of warmth at the concern on her face. “I’ll try. Thank you again, princess.”

        She fluttered a hand - half a dismissal, half a way goodbye, and he gathered his pastries closer together and slipped out the kitchen door.

        He had done another half-hearted spin around the city - looking to see if there was any suspicious activity or loitering butterflies - but he was only going through the motions now. The pastries helped, though. But it was more than just the food, it was nice to know there was someone on his side.

        He let go of his transformation a block away from the mansion and wandered in, chasing off Nathalie’s inquiries with well practiced lies. His dinner was already set on the table, and he ate it feeling half asleep. Considerably less _stale_ than Marinette’s gifts had been, but still missing something.

        His father was nowhere to be seen.

        He didn’t know if it was a relief or not.

        Adrien started to nod off halfway through his Literature homework, head dropping to his chest like it had in the bakery, so he gave up, surrendering to sleep at the ridiculously early hour of 10pm.

        The last image in his mind before he drifted off was not his father, or that white butterfly on his desk - but the image of Marinette pressing her fingertips against her lips.

* * *

        “It's amazing how my ‘home’ has managed to feel even _more_ cold and hostile,” Adrien said drily, baring his shoulders against the brisk November air. He had left early for school today - making something up about a school project - and now sat, alone, at one of the benches in the back. His unfinished Literature homework sat on his lap, not much further along than it had been the night before.

        Plagg hummed thoughtfully. “You could always run away.”

        “Ha,” Adrien said. “Yeah, and it’d be, what? A day before the entire police force drags me back kicking and screaming?” He rested his chin on his hand, sighing. “I can’t do anything that might make _père_ suspicious of me. I have to be the perfect son, like always.” He grimaced. “I guess I should be grateful he hasn’t asked me to be his … evil sidekick, or something. Who knows how I’d dodge _that._ ”

        Plagg nibbled at the block of holey swiss he had given him. It was his second piece of cheese this morning. “Good for you that your dad doesn’t like you much, huh?”

        “Yeah,” Adrien said drily. “What a relief.”

        Plagg stared him down, hovering at eye level. “Where’s your Miraculous?”

        Adrien’s fingers hooked the chain chain around his neck, tugging it back so the ring peeked out from behind his shirt collar. “I didn’t want to risk it.”

        “Good idea,” Plagg said. “Just keep it on you. I shouldn’t be too far away from it, or things get really sticky.”

        Adrien gave a half smile, a memory stirring in his mind. “Like a _dæmon_?”

        “A what?”

        “Never mind,” said Adrien, not sure why he expected Plagg to be well read. “His kwami won’t be able to sense it, or you, right?”

        Plagg shook his head. “I’ve never met them before. There are seven of us in a set, but I only really know Ti-- Ladybug’s.”

        He had never really thought about Ladybug having a kwami, though he knew that she probably didn’t just _happen_ to have magic earrings and superpowers. “But can you two sense each other?”

        Plagg shrugged. “Nope. Wish I did. She owes me cheese.”

        Adrien clicked his tongue. “And you’re _sure_ that kwamis wouldn’t notice-”

        “Yeeees,” Plagg trilled, annoyed. “What, do you think that Pinkie was just too shy to mention me to your dad? It’s _fine._ I wouldn’t be able to sense another kwami if they were right in front-”

        Adrien heard a crash, and he jolted into action, shoving Plagg’s head down and into his bag. Marinette came running by an instant later, her bag swinging wildly behind her.

        She stopped right in front of him, doubling over and panting.

        “... Hello?”

        She straightened, her eyes flickering to him, and then her eyes widened in horror. She took a step back and then another one, like she was trying to find a wall to press herself against.

        “Um! Hi! Adrien! Hi! What-what are you doing here? I mean, ha, it’s … it’s your school. _Our_ school. So… obviously… Ha. Um. Good morning?”

        Annnd she was right back to normal.

        “... Good morning.” His head tilted, and her face went bright red. She was…

        ...Okay. She could be _really_ strange.

        Where had the Marinette of last night gone?  She was an entirely different person around him - around _Adrien_ . It was like she was _terrified_ of him. He couldn’t remember one encounter where she wasn’t sputtering, or screaming, or dead silent or - on at least one occasion - squeaking in fear.

        It made him feel weirdly guilty. Not to mention uncomfortable.

        “Are you okay?” he asked, taking in her disheveled appearance.

        “Um,” she said, swallowing visibly. “Y-yeah, I just… well, I was late, so I…”

        His head tilted. “Late for what?”

        “Class?” she answered, immediately, and then took in his casual, no rush position outside the school and then the complete and utter lack of other students.

        She clamped a hand over her face. “Oh, I am so _dumb_ ,” she muttered. He didn’t think he was supposed to hear it.

        “Is everything okay?” he asked kindly, and she stirred herself from her mortification to peek at him over her hands.

        “Yeah, I … I just stayed up really late last night. Thinking.”

        His heart did a weird tap dance. “Yeah?”

        “The Literature homework was pretty open ended,” she said, “so I was just... y’know… thinking … about it.”

        “Oh,” he said, fighting a weird sense of disappointment.

        Why would he even _want_ Marinette to stay up thinking about him? He had barely given her a second thought, with his head still wrapped up in yesterday morning’s revelations.

        “Well,” he said, after a beat. “I’m still working on it and think I just wrote the same sentence three times in a row. If you’re not busy, would you mind helping me…?”

        Marinette’s eyes flickered to the homework, then back to him. Their eyes met and she flinched, adjusted her gaze to the ground.

        “That’s - um - that, would ... uhhh.” She grimaced. “NopesorrywishIcould _bye_!”

        And then she ran off without another word.

        Adrien’s brow furrowed.

        Marinette Dupain-Cheng was ... an enigma.

        She avoided his gaze for the rest of the school day. Alya kept an arm around her like she was consoling her, and Adrien wondered if there _was_ something wrong and he had been a jerk for boggling at her behavior.

        The rest of the school day passed in a blur. It was always for the best when Adrien turned off the part of his brain that was Chat Noir, and instead went through the motions with a vacant smile on his face.

        But forgetting about what he knew was getting harder and harder, like a echo growing louder in the back of his mind.

        As soon as he had got into the car (following fencing lessons where he had been smacked with his teacher’s saber an embarrassing number of times), he received a text from Nathalie.

_Your father wants to see you in his office the minute you get home._

        Adrien spent the car ride in complete and utter dread, half wishing there would be some sort of accident on the way home. Not, like, a bad one, just … one that would take hours to get through. He wished his bad luck powers were more … _malleable_. He could really use some misfortune every once and a while.

        He ran up to his room as soon as he got home, knowing he only had a minute or so before his father realized he was home. He slipped off the chain with his ring and put it in his desk drawer, locking it with a tiny silver key. Then he dropped his school bag by his bed, and opened it to speak to Plagg.

        “Stay here and stay quiet.”

        “You’re paranoid,” Plagg said. “I told you, your dad’s kwami doesn’t know I exist.”

        He made a face. “Yeah, but having you there with me makes me ten times more nervous. I’d rather not have any … evidence on me.”

        Not like his father was going to do a bodycheck.

        ...Well. He hoped not.

        “I’m going to take a nap,” Plagg announced, and snuggled deeper in the folds of the bag. Adrien sighed, and then walked out, making sure the door was securely closed.

        His father didn’t suspect who he was, he thought, trying to reassure himself. Maybe he was talking about something else. There was a definite chance he screwed up at yesterday’s photoshoot - he really wouldn’t doubt it, with the fog in his mind looming over him the whole day.

        He took a deep breath and knocked on the door.

        “Come in,” came Gabriel’s voice from inside, and Adrien straightened on instinct and walked stiffly inside.

        His father looked much better. Nowhere near as exhausted as the previous morning, and his hair and clothes had returned to their usual immaculate state.

        He greeted his father, forcing himself to sound casual and polite, and Gabriel raised an eyebrow.

        “I’ve been thinking,” he said, and Adrien repeated _he doesn’t know he can’t know he doesn’t know he CAN’T know_ in his head like it was a spell.

        “You know how I loathe you being at public school,” his father continued, and Adrien blood ran cold. No. No. He couldn’t take him away from school. He wouldn’t be able to stand being in this house for a moment longer than already he had to.

        “... But,” his father said, letting the word trail in the air. “As a company owner, along with my … side project, I don’t have much time to interact with the people of Paris.”

        “But I do,” Adrien said, not sure if it was a question or an affirmation.

        “Yes. I’m not asking for much. I can see how much this whole thing _unnerves_ you - but it would be simple to pass along any information you hear that might interest me, would it not?”

        Adrien nodded numbly, trying to remind himself that this could be worse. It could be so much worse.

        What would the harm be in telling his father rumors? Most of them were completely off, anyway, and the rest, he could  ... filter. Make it so that nothing his father heard was even close. This was fine. This was good, actually.

        Though there was no way he would be able to distinguish the truths about Ladybug’s secret identity to the falsehoods.

        He’d just have to hope for the best. He could do it, he knew he could.

        But he just wished his hands weren’t shaking when he walked out the door.

        Adrien made a quick detour to the kitchen to pick up a new smelly bribe - the cook didn’t even blink at this anymore - and then slipped back up to his room.

        Still shaking.

        Adrien dropped the hastily packaged paper bag on his desk, and Plagg stirred from sleep.

        “Here,” Adrien said, voice taut. He unlocked the drawer, removing the ring and necklace. “Let’s go.”

        Plagg sat up, glanced at the cheese. “While I never say no to Camembert,” he said, his voice less cheery than usual, “you’re going to burn yourself out. You need to take a break. Take a nap. Read a book. Eat some cheese!”

        Adrien rubbed his forehead. “The longer I wait the more likely he’ll figure it out, Plagg. I have to find wherever his hideout is and…” Reason with him? Beg him to stop? When he had _ever_ won an argument with his father?

        He exhaled slowly, dismissing the pessimistic thoughts. “Please. I can’t just sit here doing nothing. I feel so _useless.”_

Plagg stared at him, pity flashing in those giant green eyes, and then chewed slowly on a huge bite of Camembert. “Fiiiine,” he said, at last. “Your funeral.”

* * *

        His mission for the day? Find his father’s place of operations. It clearly wasn’t his home office - that lone butterfly couldn’t account for the dozens of Akumas - but he knew it had to be _somewhere._

        Several hours later, he was so frustrated he wanted to drop his head and screa. Paris was a large city, yes, but where would you hide several hundred - or _thousand -_ butterflies? Could it be in an abandoned building? Something that his father had owned?

        Why was this so _hard?_

        He had ended up rounding back to close by the school - it was dark now - and found himself once again stopped outside the Dupain-Cheng’s bakery.

        He hesitated.

        And then his stomach rumbled, and he took it as a sign.

        Chat Noir sat outside the back door again, waiting for the coast to clear. It was dark enough that he was well and completely hidden, but he could sneak quick peaks as the door opened and closed. The kitchen was busy tonight - he could see Marinette’s father and a couple young men and women bustling around, hard at work. He was about to call it a dud when he spotted familiar pigtails and a freckled nose wrinkled in concentration.

        He grinned, and then jumped up on the dumpster, clambering up to the wall of the alley. He then extended his baton and very loudly smacked the surface of the dumpster.

        There was a beat, and then words from inside, too quiet for him to hear.

        He had assumed that among chefs, Marinette was the lowest on the pecking order - and thus the one who was sent out to investigate strange noises.

        “--probably a cat,” Chat heard her voice say as the door swung open again, and his grin grew wider.

        She walked out, using the flashlight on her phone to see, and stood in front the dumpster, a hand on her hip. She turned, pointing her phone’s light in the direction opposite of him, and he silently leaned forward, tapping his baton on her shoulder.

        He waited for the same display of surprise he saw this morning, but instead she whipped around, pointing her phone’s light directly in his face.

        “I _knew_ it,” she said, and he winced at the blinding light.

        “What are you doing here? _Again_ ,” she added, with unnecessary emphasis.

        “Checking up on you,” he said, cheerfully. “Anything strange to report?”

        She gave him a wry look. “Only a very persistent stray.”

        He shrugged, which wasn’t too easy when one was perched on a wall. “I’ll be out of your hair soon. But…”

        “Ahhh,” she said, eyes widening in mock realization. “You’re just here to steal more food.”

        He smiled sheepishly. “It’s not stealing if you _give_ it to me…Besides, you don't want me fainting again, do you?”

        She sighed, and then chewed on her bottom lip. “I do have something, actually. Hold on.”

        She returned a minute later, holding something small and round in her hands. “C’mere,” she said. “I don’t even know what I’m going to tell Papa what I found out here. Maybe I'll just tell him it _was_ a cat. ”

        She gestured for him to come closer, and he landed on the dumpster (on his feet, natch), and Marinette winced at the loud bang.

        “A very _fat_ cat.”

        “I’m not fat,” he protested. “I’m big boned.”

        She did not appreciate the reference. She silently handed him his prize - a small, rounded chocolate cake.

        He peered at the cake, noticing the fat smudgy lines of pink frosting. She noticed his scrutiny and grimaced.

        “Papa suggested I tried frosting it, but I’m … awful.” She winced. “I should just stick to designing and sewing.”

        It took him a moment to remember that Chat Noir would have no idea Marinette was into fashion. “You have hobbies outside of teasing me?” he asked, forcing a tone of surprise.

        She made a face, and his voice softened. “You’ll get the hang of it. You must be a fantastic artist. Besides, this isn’t _that_ bad - this is, what? A very nice flower?”

        “It’s a bird,” she said.

        “That’s what I meant to say,” he said, very quickly. “A very pretty bird.”

        She rolled her eyes but smiled, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear. “Thank you for compliment. Or the attempt at one.”

        He broke off a piece of cake, the chocolate frosting covering his thumb. “It’s delicious, anyway.”

        “I can’t take any credit for that,” she said, watching him as he licked the frosting off his thumb. “But I’m glad you liked it.”

        “I appreciate it profoundly,” he said. “Thank you for your noble deed of keeping one half of Paris’s superteam fed.”

        She gave a look. “Truly,” she said, drily, “the most important contribution I’ll ever make.”

        He looked at this girl - standing before him, not one ounce intimidated or impressed by Chat Noir - and couldn’t see _any_ of the shy awkward girl from that morning.

        “Are you sure there aren’t two of you?” he asked, tilting his head to peer at her - like he would find some sort of mark that would distinguish her from her school counterpart.

        She paused, and then grinned like she remembered a private joke. “Not that I’m aware of.”

        He stared at her, lost in thought. Something must have registered on his face, because Marinette frowned and lowered her phone’s light.

        “... Everything okay?”

        He straightened. “Of course. No fainting tonight. I’m fit as a fiddle.”

        She didn't exactly relax, but a call of “ _Marinette_!” distracted her from further questioning.

        She glanced back at the door. “Gotta go. Goodbye, fat cat.”

        “Goodnight, my _liege_.”

        He watched her walk back to the kitchen door and then turn off her phone’s light. She looked back at him over her shoulder, and he waved - even though he knew she couldn’t see it.

* * *

         His life began to follow a neat pattern. Go to school, or fencing, or lessons, or a photoshoot. Avoid (or be forced into) a tense confrontation with his father. Transform into Chat Noir, search the city, find _nothing_ ... and then make time to grab a quick snack from the bakery.

        He soon realized his father had put a halt on attacks - for how long, and for what exact reason, he had no idea. Adrien wasn’t sure if it was a relief to have the break or disconcerting - not knowing what he was up to or planning.

        He was leaning towards the latter.

        But he kept on his rounds, day in and day out, without much change. Except whenever he made an attempt to talk to his new caretaker at school.

        On Friday Nino had been talking to the girls between classes - kneeling on his chair so he could rest his elbows on Alya’s part of the table - discussing the lack of activity on the Ladyblog.

        “You haven’t updated it in _days,”_ Nino said. “You're slacking. C’mon, one of the Korean bloggers is going to overtake you at this point-”

        Alya shoved her pencil, eraser first, into his arm. “I am _not_ slacking. I’m working on a big post right now. And besides, they haven’t been seen for nearly a week, and I’m not going to post _fanfic_ to fill the blog like _The ChatRoom_ does. That’s just - weird. Who writes fanfic about real people?”

        Marinette murmured her agreement, and Adrien turned around. “My chauffeur saw Chat Noir the other night,” he said, voice casual.

        Alya’s eyes widened. “Really? Where?”

        He paused for effect. “With a girl outside the Dupain-Cheng’s bakery.” And then, a sly smile on his face, turned to look directly at Marinette.

        Marinette, who had been quiet the entire conversation, jumped back in her chair, pushing it  all the way back against the table behind her like she was trying to exit the conversation. Alya spun around to face her.

        “ _What_? Girl, spill!”

        Marinette held up her hands defensively. “It wasn’t - that wasn’t me! It must have been another girl! Or another bakery! Wh-why would I be hanging out with Chat Noir?”

        Alya’s eyes narrowed.

        “B-besides,” she said. “Why would I not tell you?” And then - to his utter surprise - she shot Adrien a look that said _please help me._

        He was surprised at her reaching out for help, and then suddenly felt guilty for outing her. Even though he saw no reason to be ashamed for spending time with Chat Noir. Chat Noir was _cool_.

        "Actually,” he said, his voice apologetic. “He did say the girl was probably too young to be any of my classmates.”

        Alya relaxed slightly, dropping the pen that had become a weapon in her hand. “It’s those pigtails, Marinette,” she said, voice teasing. “They make you look like a elementary school student.”

        Marinette stuck her tongue out at her, and Adrien - out of guilt, he’d convince himself later - smiled and said:

        “I like them.”

        The conversation screeched to a halt. Marinette went bright red, mouth a tight line, until Alya gently started smacking her in the arm.

        “Th-thanks,” she said, and he smiled even though she kept her eyes firmly on her desk.

        Later - as class ended, and he was putting everything in his bag with care not to squish Plagg’s big fat head - she strolled by his desk.

        “Between you and me?” she said, her voice a conspiratorial whisper. “Chat Noir eats like a pig.”

        His head jolted up, a hand covering his mouth to stifle a snort of laughter, but she had already zipped out of the classroom like it was on fire.

* * *

         He couldn’t remember ever feeling more dread about waking up on a Saturday morning.

        Especially after he woke up and immediately - like she could somehow sense it - got a text from Nathalie saying all his extracurriculars were cancelled for the day.

        Great.

        An entire day stuck in the house with dear old dad.

        And before he could even _form_ a plan of escape - he heard familiar footsteps outside the door, walking by slowly and then hesitating.

        He immediately dropped back down onto his pillow - trying to feign sleep from behind the door - but knew his time was limited.

        He dressed painfully slowly, dreading every second, and dragged himself to his father’s office. Again.

        “Adrien,” his father said, like his arrival was a pleasant surprise. He had dressed quickly, in clothes from his father’s line. They had always made him feel like a doll.

        He glanced at him like he was expecting something, and Adrien struggled to find words his father would want to hear.

        “No one has seen Ladybug or Chat Noir in days, sir,” he said, very careful not to repeat his mistake from the day before. He hoped that no one looked too deeply into alleged Chat Noir sightings.

        His father’s eyes narrowed. “Obviously. Stupid boy, do you not think I wouldn’t be _aware_ that there are no incidents for them to attend to?”

        Adrien tried not to wince. “I’m just … surprised you haven’t formulated any plans lately.” Was no one in Paris angry or disappointed or sad? Was everyone just having a stellar week?

        His father tapped his longer fingers on his desk.

        “I feel like I’ve been too … hasty, with my previous attacks. Too random. Some precision would greatly assist in finding someone who was most capable of tracking down Ladybug and Chat Noir.”

        “Precision?”

        “Is there anyone who might know something? Your classmates are obsessed with them - surely there must be some amatuer sleuth among your peers who knows something? Think carefully before you answer, Adrien,” he said voice cool, and he was made even more sure that his previous statement was the wrong one.

        Of course Alya’s name immediately came to mind. And of course he felt tremendously guilty for even mentioning her to his father, but … she had already became an akuma. Maybe there was no harm to it?

        And who knew what his father would do if he provided another stupid answer.

        “I - one of my classmates, Alya - she runs a Ladybug Blog. She’s dead set on finding out who she is.” His father tilted his head, and he provided what he must have been searching for. “She was Lady Wifi.”

        “Ah,” said his father. “And you think she really might have information to incriminate Ladybug?”

        He could hear a voice screaming in his head. _Traitor_. Both to Alya and Ladybug. But...

        “She had a theory that she goes to our school,” he said, swallowing. “She later deleted it, but … maybe she was on to something.”

        His father’s face was blank, and he was terrified of how he’d respond, but instead -

        Gabriel smiled.

        “Excellent. I’ll try and get in touch with her. She was quite a capable ally, actually. Many of your schoolmates were.”

        “Why did you … why did you take so many of them?” Adrien didn’t know what was making his tongue so bold, but he continued speaking anyway. “I see them every day, and my friends--”

        “I’ve left the people you care about alone,” Gabriel said, almost defensive, and Adrien stared at him in utter confusion.

        “Your friend, the mayor’s daughter, what was ...” he trailed off, deep in thought, before the name came to him. “Chloe. I haven’t let her get involved. Out of respect to you.”

        He said it like he was paying Adrien a favor.

        “... and because of her influential father, of course. But still, I’d hesitate to cause you any trauma due to  seeing her in any sort of altered, angry state. She’s been surprisingly helpful even without direct involvement - she’s … how would I put it? ... Provoked many people to a path directly towards me.”

        Provoked, he thought. Provoked like his father had provoked Nino - who has received no immunity,  despite being a dearer friend to Adrien than Chloe. No, Nino was instead pushed to the brink by the very man who was planning to use his anger.

        It was made very clear what Gabriel thought of Adrien’s friends.

        His father was still speaking. “... of course I would never involve Nathalie, and I would be happy to grant the same favor to any of your friends, Adrien, as long as you’re … cooperative.”

        A name sprang to his lips immediately, and he choked it down. It was tempting - too tempting - to make sure Marinette stayed out of the line of fire. But what would happen if he angered his father? She’d immediately be first on the list. And God knows what would happen if Gabriel Agreste found some reason to _disapprove_ of her…

        He went through the names of other classmates, but of course there was no one left untouched by Paris’s greatest mystery. He had seen so many of them at their worst - tough-as-nails-Juleka had _broke down sobbing._ But it was too late now. _Of course_ his father would offer salvation long after it was needed.

        “No, sir,” he said, his mouth dry. “That won’t be necessary.”

* * *

        He had almost skipped visiting the bakery on patrol that night. He had almost skipped transforming entirely due to the events of that morning, and how his father had hovered around while he tried to finish his homework, but the guilt had manifested into a form that made him feel like he was being torn apart while he remained as Adrien - ripped apart by idleness. Uselessness.

        Not that Chat Noir was much better.

        So he slipped out, late at night, and told himself he’d jot by the bakery only for a second. Just a second, and then back to scoping out every inch of Paris like he had every night for the past five nights. Like it’d somehow work this time.

        He considered, jumping between buildings, and not for the first time - telling Ladybug. Two sets of eyes were better than one, and she was his partner, but ….

        But he had just agreed to actively help in uncovering her secret identity. And he had handed his father information that may incriminate her.

        He didn’t know if he could ever look her in the eye again.

        Marinette had become a crutch - a partner in crime that he didn’t feel like he had to hide so much from, who he didn’t feel like he was letting down. But now Chat wondered if he even deserved her company anymore.

        He stood in front of the bakery’s door, frozen solid, and again considered just turning back without seeing her. But before he could take another step, the door swung open and Marinette stepped out, beaming.

        “Thought that was you,” she said, thrusting a paper bag at him. “Here. I had it pre-prepared.”

        Chat Noir examined the bag - warm and dusted with powdered sugar - and his heart did a terrible flop, like it was trying pathetically hard to feel happy but didn’t quite have the energy to do so.

        Marinette’s eyes glanced up and down his face, and the smile dropped off hers. “Chat? Chat, what’s wrong?”

        He startled, and then forced himself to straighten up and grin. “Oh, nothing, princess. I’m just … hungry. You know me.”

        She took a step towards him, now rather close, and he took a step back. “Are you sure? You don’t look so good.”

        “I always look good,” he said, imagining pins keeping his smile firmly in place. “Really. You should see me unmasked. You’d swoon.”

        “I’m sure,” she said, now close enough that he was struggling not to back away. “Do you act as weird as you do with the mask on?”

_Nope. Just a pathetic coward._

        “What?” Marinette said, and he realized with a jolt he had spoken out loud. Good God, he was a mess.

        “Nothing, nothing. Oh, I - um,” he pulled out his baton. “Ha, ha, look at that, my Lady is calling me. Got to go! Thank you so much for the snack--”

        “Chat--!”

        “Bye!” He said, securing the bag between his teeth, and he jumped up and ran off on all fours, his pinned-in-place smiling falling as soon as he turned away.

        He was falling apart.

* * *

         “You’re falling apart,” said Plagg.

        “Yeah, I’m aware,” Adrien muttered, marching out the door. Piano lessons had ate up most of the day, but his father had abruptly left for a business trip this morning - the best news he had heard all week. At first he had taken news of his freedom like a man being released from jail - but now the old paranoia and guilt had set in, and he was practically pacing up and down the street.

        “Well I’m _sick of it_ ,” Plagg said. “Every day, it’s “transform me, Plagg”, “we have to stop my Dad, Plagg, and, “you don’t need any more cheese, Plagg”! Haven’t you ever considered that you need a break? That _I_ need a break?”

        Adrien didn’t have time for this. “We’ll take a break once this is fixed, Plagg. Besides, I have school tomorrow anyway so we can-”

“ _NO_ ,” shouted Plagg, in an unimaginably loud roar. Adrien glanced around, terrified someone may have heard, but Plagg didn’t care.  His eyes were glowing a bright green, and he hovered at Adrien’s eye level.. “No. More. Your father isn’t even IN Paris today! THAT’S _ENOUGH.”_

        “Plagg,” Adrien hissed, trying desperately to catch the kwami in his hands as he ran the two of them into an alley. “Calm down, someone will hear-”

        “I will _not_ calm down,” he said, and his voice sounded like a terrible angry God, too deep and loud to come from such a tiny body. Adrien half expected his head to start spinning around. “And I will NOT transform you so we can visit your _girlfriend_ again-”

        “She’s _not_ my girlfriend,” Adrien hissed, giving up trying to be gentle and instead just trying to crush the kwami’s giant head with his hands. “I don’t even _like_ her that much -”

        “I live in your head, boy,” Plagg growled, voice unmuffled by his hands. “I know _exactly_ what you like.”

        “Then you know I love Ladybug! L-a-d-y-b-u-g! Not Marinette! She’s - she’s weird, and flighty, and has two different personalities -”

        Plagg bit his finger, and Adrien swore and moved his hands away from his mouth. “You can like more than one person,” said Plagg, “like how I like more than one cheese! But fine, deny it, I’m just NOT GOING TO PUT UP WITH IT ANY MORE!”

        The words echoed through the alley, and a cop on the street turned to look down it. Adrien snatched Plagg out of the air - getting another bite for his efforts - and pressed them both against a wall.

        “If I _promise_ to not make you transform me today,” said Adrien, “will you please, please be quiet?”

        Plagg scoffed. “Just so you can make me transform again tomorrow?”

        “No! Yes. Maybe? God, Plagg, I don’t know, but - just please, please, be quiet. I promise you can take today off, and I’ll make it up to you, you can - you can just sleep in my bag all day if you want. Take a break. Just please stop _yelling_.”

        Plagg’s eyes blazed again, and then he sighed. “Fine. _Fine_. But when I wake up I better be _surrounded_ by cheese.”

        Adrien exhaled slowly. “Yes. Of course. Anything.”

        Plagg nodded slowly, and then drifted toward his bag’s zipper. Adrien watched the cop glance down the alley and then slink away.

        “... and if you want to do me another favor,” said Plagg, “can you _please_ stop thinking about that girl all the time? It gives me a headache.”

        “Consider it done,” Adrien said, horrified to find himself flushing.

* * *

         But that was much easier said than done.

        Because - despite the fact what he said to Plagg was true - he _did_ think Marinette was weird, and mean, and hated how she seemed to have two personalities - and he did of course, love Ladybug even if he was avoiding her …

        … He had still gravitated towards the bakery like he was being pulled by a magnet.

        Of course, he was Adrien now - and so he ignored the back entrance this time. The sign up front said the bakery would only be open for another hour, and he slipped inside, joining a line with three other people in it.

        Marinette was nowhere to be seen, and he took any way he might feel about that and shoved it into the furthest corner of his mind. Marinette was only a friend, of course. A weird friend who he didn’t understand - but a friend none the less. That was the only reason he was disappointed.

        (He’d repeat it until he believed it if he had to.)

        Adrien had never been in the front of the bakery before. It was very obviously a home - which gave it an endearing, if cramped, quality - and the cabinet doors in the back had hand-painted flowers crafted that looked rather similar to the ones on Marinette’s shirts. He jumped up on his toes to get a better look over the tall man in front of him, and was amazed by the artisan quality of the cakes. He now understood a bit better the pressure Marinette felt about icing.

        When he reached the front of line, he found himself staring into a strangely familiar face. While he had never met Marinette’s mother before, he recognized her instantly. A round face, cropped short jet black hair, and fingers that pressed against her lips while she thought. She glanced up from the cash register and met his gaze, and her eyes lit up.

        “Oh!” she said. “I know you, you’re the one from her ...” she trailed off, glancing up at the ceiling.

        “... from her class?” he suggested, and she nodded quickly.

        Her eyes had a strangely wicked gleam, like that wasn’t quite it, but she had no intention of giving up her secret. He felt a weird shiver down his back, and found himself hoping that Marinette’s parents weren’t aware of Chat Noir’s visits to their home.

        “My name is Adrien,” he said, remembering his manners. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

        “Oh, the pleasure is mine,” she said, smiling in a way that was eerily familiar but not quite there. “What can I get you?”

        He was tempted to order everything that Marinette had supplied him with the last week - but Nathalie would be suspicious of an order on his card that cost more than a few euros. “Um, anything you have with cheese?”

        Surprisingly, she didn’t seem to find this a weird request. She listed out his options - including the types of cheeses - and she shrugged.

        “Er. Yes. All of them.”

        Still unfazed, she rang him up and picked the pastries from the glass cabinet in front of him. There was no one behind him in line, so she took care to find him the perfect pastries as she did.       

        “Good to see a boy with an appetite,” she said, leaning over the case. “Especially a model.”

        “Oh, they’ve tri-” he cut himself off. “Wait, has Marinette mentioned my modeling?”

        Her eyes glittered again, and she just shook her head. “Oh, no, I saw your ads.”

        Right. Right, yeah, that made more sense. He took a step back, forcing himself to leave before he said anything else weird.

        “Thank you so much,” he said, as she walked out from behind the counter and handed him his order. “And, um,” he said, hesitating. “... Is Marinette home?”

        Mrs. Dupain-Cheng shook her head. “I’m sorry,” she said. “You just missed her.”

        “Oh,” he said. “That’s too bad. Well, thank you again.”

        “Please come back any time,” said the woman, the mischievous glint back in her eyes, and he frowned and walked out.

        He found a bench near the back of the bakery and sat down, putting the pastry bag next to him. He could still hear Plagg’s snores from his bag, so he left him alone. It was a really nice day - the late afternoon starting to show the faintest signs of sunset - and he rested his arms on the back of the bench and watched Paris with tired eyes.

        He loved this city and its inhabitants so much - and he wished more than anything that he could do more for it.

        Adrien closed his eyes, taking a deep breath, when he heard the words coming from behind the bakery.

        “Chat Noir! Chat, I know you’re here somewhere!”

        Adrien’s blood froze, and he jumped off the bench, abandoning his bag. He looked at the back corner where he usually met with Marinette -

        And saw Ladybug crouching on the roof.

        “Come out, come out,” she called, and then groaned, smacking a hand over her face. “Of course, the _one day_ he doesn’t show up…”

        He didn’t know how to react. He didn’t know how to _breathe._ It had been almost exactly a week since he had seen his Lady - and there she was, standing right in front of him. His heart waged war with itself, joy and horror and guilt and elation all fighting to be heard.

        “Ladybug,” he said, to himself, but somehow she heard him - her head jolted up and she turned to stare directly at him from across the street.

        He had seen Ladybug as Adrien only twice - at his birthday party and once from a car. It had been a strange, overwhelming experience, and he had thought he might burst from nerves.

        This was on an entire other level.

        She dropped down from the roof immediately, walking towards him like she was in a trance. And then she froze, limbs awkward and stilted.

        “Oh,” said Ladybug, her big blue eyes blinking rapidly. “Um.” She scratched the back of her neck. “H-hi, civilian.”

        “Ladybug,” he said, softly. “I … it’s a … It’s a pleasure.” He was repeating the same words that he had said to Marinette’s mother - but somehow they felt very different.

        “Same to you!” she said quickly, and then bit her lip. “Um. You’re the, the model, right?”

        He nodded, feeling strangely worried as a old theory was confirmed. Ladybug had heard of Adrien Agreste - and therefore, must have heard of Gabriel Agreste as well. Great.

        She knitted her fingers together, and then seemed to suddenly remember what she was there for.

        “Have - have you seen Chat Noir anywhere? I’m …” she exhaled slowly. “I’m worried about him.”

        Of course the only time she wanted to spend time with him was when he was avoiding her.

        Adrien shook his head. “No one’s seen him in a week, right?” he said, the lie well practiced, thanks to his father.

        She grimaced. “Apparently.”

        “I’m…” _ho, boy,_ why couldn’t he just _speak_? Was it this awful because he was Adrien? Or because - because he knew what he had done? What his father had done? “... I’m sorry he has you so worried.”

        She laughed. “That’s more common than you’d think.” She rubbed her arms, and exhaled slowly. “I think he’s gotten himself into some trouble.”

        Adrien glanced at the bakery’s back door. “I’m sure he’s fine,” he said, softly. “He’s a superhero, after all.”

        “We’re more fragile than we look,” she said, her smile not quite reaching her eyes.

        He looked back at her - her powerful arms, the determined line of her lips, how she stood straight and tall. “You look like you could take on the world,” he said, softly, and her eyes widened, and then she smiled - a more genuine one, this time.

        “Thanks,” she said, and rubbed her arm again. A nervous tic.

        “Good luck finding him,” he said, the irony bitter on his tongue.

        “Thanks,” she said again, and then took a step back. “You, er, keep … safe? Enjoy your pastries.”

        “You too,” he said automatically, and then winced. “Um - I mean -”

        She laughed, and his heart did a somersault. “I know,” she said, taking her yo-yo from her belt. “Enjoy the rest of your Sunday.”

        Adrien watched her leave, and felt like a vice had wrapped itself around his heart.

* * *

        His father was still gone on Monday, and it was a dreary rainy day at school. He had tests in almost every class, and holed himself up in the library during his breaks. Nino had talked to him briefly expressing concern that was easily brushed off, but he had only seen Marinette from a distance.

        Plagg probably wouldn’t let him visit today anyway.

        But that was fine.

        Throughout the rest of the day he convinced himself he didn’t need to - that with his father away that he had no need to search, and besides - as he had told Plagg, he didn’t even like her that much. And he had plenty of food at home. So. Whatever.

        It was a little after ten when Plagg dropped on his laptop, shutting it firmly, and groaned.

        “Enough,” he said. “Let’s just _go.”_

        “What?”

        “You’ve been sighing all night. I’m sick of hearing it. I’ll transform you and you can see-” his voice took on a mocking tone-" _Marinette_ again. Yay. Even though it's  a terrible idea. And it will end badly.”

        Adrien dropped the pen he had been clicking against his cheek. “Are you serious? You nearly bit my finger off yesterday, and now you’re suddenly changing your mind?”

        Plagg crossed his tiny arms. “That bakery is the only place where you’re happy these days.”

        He couldn’t argue that.

        “...Besides, I want more of those cheese pastries. Let’s get a move on.”

        “Right,” Adrien said, still not sure if this was a terrible idea or not.

* * *

         “I didn’t think you’d show up,” said Marinette, before he could even finish knocking on the door. “You weren’t here yesterday.”

        “Perhaps I had other bakeries to tend to,” he said. He had only been outside her door for a few seconds, but the trip over her had already made him very damp. He was tempted to shake off the excess water, but that was probably a bit too dog like for Chat Noir.

        “I seriously doubt that.”

        “I’m very popular, princess.”

        “I doubt that even more.”

        He tried a grin, but remembered his encounter with Ladybug - just a few feet away - and faltered.

        She gave him a look. “You okay?

        “Of course,” he said, immediately. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

        “... Right,” she said, glancing down. “Come in. You’re going to get sick and I don’t want you passing out again.”

        Even though it was late - well past the closing hour of the bakery - he could feel the heat of the oven, and a few pans lying half washed in the sink.

        “Are you baking me a present?” he suggested flippantly.

        But to his utter shock - Marinette _blushed._ Blushed like School-Marinette would.

        “I, I just thought,” she said, avoiding his face. “That I … that you … It just seemed like you were having a hard week.”

        He swallowed, awkward and having absolutely no idea how to respond. “... T-thanks.”

        “It’s probably burnt anyways,” she groaned, pushing her bangs back from her forehead.  “I’ve been so scatter-brained lately.”

        He settled himself on the floor, crossing his legs. “Even if it is I’ll eat every bite. Cross my heart.”

        They sat in a comfortable silence while waiting for the oven timer, Marinette washing dishes to pass the time. He almost offered to help, but he hadn’t … actually ever washed a dish before. Besides. Leather gloves probably weren’t the best for washing dishes.

        “How’s your week been?” he asked, quietly.

        She sighed. “Weird. It doesn’t feel real. Like I woke up in someone else’s body.”

        He crossed his arms over his knees. “Everything okay at school?”

        “Oh, yeah,” she said, glancing back at him. “Great, actually. I keep talking to…” she trailed off, flushing again, and he frowned.

        “Talking to?”

        “Nothing,” she said quickly, and he felt a weird tightness spasm in his chest. A spasm that reminded him of seeing Theo with Ladybug.

        He shoved that to the back of his mind with all the other thoughts he was ignoring.

        His brooding thoughts were interrupted by a _ding_ , and Marinette jumped up, selecting worn red oven mitts from a table and opening up the oven. The rush of heat felt nice on his still damp skin, and he shut his eyes, enjoying the warmth.

        When he had opened them again, Marinette was smirking at him. She had tied a (of course!) pink polka-dotted apron around her waist, with a long bow that trailed down her lower back and …

        He forced his eyes skyward, and watched as she carefully opened a bag of powdered sugar. She picked up a little metal cylinder with a hand crank on the side, and Chat raised his eyebrows.

        “Is that a torture device?”

        She snorted, dipping the cylinder into the bag. “I’ve got you right where I want you, Mr. Bond.”

        He grinned. “Where’s the shark tank? I’m going to be very disappointed if there isn’t a shark tank.”

        “Ah,” she said, fake regret in her voice. “I left my shark tank at school.” She shifted over to the other side of oven, where a little glass pie tin sat, nestled on top of a towel. She raised the cylinder over the tin, and cranked it. Powdered sugar fell like a miniature snow cloud over the golden brown crust, sinking into the buttery, flaky top. It stopped, and he watched as she frowned, her tongue poking out of the corner of her mouth, and she smacked the top of it with the palm of her hand like she was a mother spanking a naughty child.

        It spat out another cloud, and she muttered under her breath.

        Chat watched, fascinated, as she pulled her oven mitts back on and picked up the tin and towel, and sat it in front of him. She hesitated a second before settling onto the flour covered floor, sitting on her knees. The pie - tart? smelled amazing. It was small, a little less than the width of his hand, with a spiral pattern across the top made by criss crossing pieces of pastry. It wasn’t as neat or even as the pastries he had seen upstairs the day before, but it was still very pretty. It was also maybe a little _too_ brown, but definitely not burnt, at least.

        Marinette pulled two tiny spoons from her apron’s pocket, and grinned at him.

        “ _Bon appetit_ ,” she said, holding one out to him.

        “Thank you,” he said, twisting it’s tiny handle between his fingers. He could feel her intent gaze on him as he broke the tart’s surface, the filling oozing through the tiny crevice. He filled his spoon with the golden crust and amber filling, and raised the itty bitty spoon to his mouth.

        At first he tasted the warm crust and powdered sugar, and he closed his eyes in ecstasy - it was clear Marinette inherited her father’s talent, even if she thought her frosting skills weren’t up to par.

        And then the filling -

        He tasted the sweet-bitter combination of a green apple, and suddenly he remembered standing in his father’s office a week ago, the apple falling to the carpet, the pink kwami flying beneath the desk …

        Marinette’s voice jolted him back to reality. “What?” she said, voice quiet. “Does it taste bad?”

        Her shook his head, both as an answer and an attempt to shake away the cobwebs of the memory. “No, no, it’s incredible.” She looked skeptical. he took another bite quickly to prove it. “I’ve never eaten something so heavenly.”

        She looked placated, and scooted forward on her knees before taking a bite of her own. “Ugh, the apples are too soft,” she said, and he boggled at her.

        “It tastes _perfect_!”

        “No, it doesn’t,” she said, not so much self loathing as pragmatic. “You just don’t know better.” Chat made an offended face, but she marched on. “No, I’m sure there’s things you’re an expert at because of your hobbies or whatever, that I couldn’t even begin to understand.”

        “Like cat puns?” he suggested, but really, the only thing that could apply was fashion, and he was sure Marinette could match him toe to toe in that category. What else was there?

        … Well, he was probably becoming an expert on cheese.

        “Sure,” she said, smiling, and taking another bite of her ‘imperfect’ tart.

        They ate punctuated by only small snippets of conversation, but Chat was too preoccupied in gooey apples and flaky crust to want to talk much. Still, though, time passed lazily and sweetly in the warm kitchen as rain poured outside, and Chat Noir knew it must have been getting late.

        “Should I get going soon?” he asked, even though part of him wished he could just ignore the time and sit here forever.

        “No, take your time. There’s no rush.”

        Chat blinked up at the ceiling, where Marinette's family apartment sat silently above them. “Wait, are your parents not home?”

        She shook her head, and he grinned and raised his eyebrows.

        “Ooh la la,” he said. "It's raining, you’ve made us a dessert for two, no one else is around ... Is this a _date_?”

        “Euch,” she said, making a face, but he could see the amusement glittering in her eyes. She stood, picking up the empty tin and their two forks inside it. “You’re awful _._ It’s not like I have a real choice in feeding you.Anyway,” Marinette continued, back to him as she deposited the dishes in the sink with a _clink._ “Aren’t you and Ladybug an item?”

        Oh, she was _sneaky_. But he recognized a test when he saw one. “Ha. Don’t believe everything you read on the internet.”

        (The last time he had embellished their relationship it hadn't ended well, and he still had a sculptor with a grudge to prove it.)

        Marinette's fingers drummed against the sink’s metal surface.“So ... you _don’t_ like her like that?”

        “I didn’t say that.” But his tone making it clear how he _did_ feel. He cupped his chin in his hand, elbow propped up against his knee. "But you're _pawfully_ interested in my love life."

        " _What_ love life?" Marinette responded, and he almost laughed in delight before remembering she was insulting him.

        He looked up at her, mouth twisted in a half smile. “If someone gave their heart to you, princess, would you at least pretend to be gentle before stomping all over it?”

        Marinette snorted, picking up the sack of powdered sugar. “I would be _very_ gentle.”

        “Like you were to poor Evillustrator?”

        “You literally called him a kidnapper a few days ago-”

        “Still counts.”

        “I was _perfectly nice_ ,” she said. “But it doesn’t matter. You’re not going to give your heart to me.”

        Unfortunately for him, Chat Noir was becoming less and less sure of that. He stood and followed her as she walked across the kitchen’s floor.

        Noticing how close he was, her arms clenched a little tighter around the bag, making the bag pop open at the top. He was about to warn her when the the powdered sugar exploded in her face. It burst out the top in a big mushroomy cloud of white and Marinette coughed and sputtered and blinked hard.

        “Eugh,” she wheezed, her nose wrinkled and her eyes squinted shut. “I hate when that happens.”

        Chat saw how the sugar coated her eyelashes, clung to the tips of her bangs and brushed lightly over her cheeks and lips.

        His eyes lingered on her mouth, very much against his will.

        Chat’s hand reached for her face instinctively, and she froze but didn’t move away. His thumb brushed across her cheek bone, making a stroke of flushed pink against the white. His eyes remained on hers as he pressed his gloved thumb into the corner of his mouth and tasted it thoughtfully.

        Marinette didn't take her eyes off of him, and the taste was not nearly as sweet as the look she was giving him.

        Her face had gone bright red beneath the sugar, and he saw her hands twitching at the top of the bag, hesitating, itching.

        “Your turn,” she said, softly, and he had no idea what she was meant but his head tilted, the gap between growing smaller as he leaned in, eyes still on her sugar dusted lips.

        Her fingers curled, and then she took a handful of the sugar and blew it into his face.

        “ _Ah!_ ” he said, and then sneezed violently, the sugar up his nose and down his throat and _far less sweet_ when it was choking him, and Marinette -

        Marinette was laughing so hard her shoulders shook, and he couldn’t help but join her, the spell broken. It took them a few minutes to recover, and Chat couldn’t stop sneezing, but …

        But his heart felt lighter than it had in days.

        “Now we match,” he said, doing a spin for her.

        “You’re coated in sugar _and_ flour,” she said, laughing. She tried to wipe her own dusting off her shoulders, and then gave up.

        He grabbed the door and swung it open, running out into the rain. Marinette watched him skeptically from the safety of the kitchen as he scrubbed at his face with the back of his hand.

        “I thought cats didn’t like water?”

        “I’m trying to make myself into a cake,” he called back. “Don’t you need water?”

        She snorted, and then finally stepped through the doorway, swiping her tiny pink bag off a stool. “What kind of cakes are you making?”

        Her face was melting, which was kind of hilarious, but he was sure he didn’t look much better.

        “You don’t even use powdered sugar for cakes,” she said. “Though powdered sugar and water does make a basic icing…?” Her tongue darted out and caught a dribble running down the side of her cheek, and she grimaced.

        “How’s that taste?” he said, raising an eyebrow.

        “Not great,” she admitted, her grimace quickly shifting into a grin. She leaned back and shut her eyes, enjoying the feel of the rain on her skin.

        Chat took a step back before he did something stupid. (Like try to kiss her.)

        Once Marinette’s face had been wiped clean of its weird sugar mask, she tilted her head up and wrinkled her nose. “We should probably get inside and dried off before you get pneumonia and start acting even loopier.”

        He frowned, “Where are we going?”

        She hesitated, facing away from him. The rain dripped and bounced off her pigtails. “... My room.”

        “Ooh la l-”

_“Don’t start!”_

* * *

         “I need to clean up first,” Marinette muttered ominously, before quickly running up the stairs to what he initially assumed to be the attic.

        He stood in the hall, trying not to drip on the floor. His suit, now wiped clean of flour, was drying quickly, but his hair was soaking wet, his ears drooping from the weight of the water.

It was hard not to feel like a stray cat, standing awkwardly in the Dupain-Cheng’s living room. Marinette had promised that her parents would be gone for another few hours, but it was still …

        Yeah, it was still weird. 

        Her home was small but cosy with a tiny kitchen, especially compared to the massive one they had just been in downstairs. It was strange, being on this side - he had been ordering pastries from Marinette’s mother just the day before.

        The trapdoor opened above him, and Marinette’s face’s peeked up from the opening.

        “You can come up now,” she said, and then disappeared, and he scaled the steps, holding onto the railing.

        “Hide all your dark secrets?” he called up to her.

        “Ha ha.”

        When he had reached the top, he saw she had changed out of her wet clothes and was sitting on a little lounge sofa thing, her arms and legs crossed. Her hair was down, and it reached a little past her shoulders, damp and slightly curly.

        The room was cute and pink and unsurprisingly well decorated, but his eyes still kept darting back to her. She was ... nervous. About a boy being in her room? About him _seeing_ her room?

        … Or maybe she was just worried about him dripping all over her carpet.

        She fidgeted under his gaze and then jumped up, grabbing a towel from beside her and tossing it to him.

        “For your hair,” she said, already fixing a fluffy pink one against hers.

        “Thank you,” he said, ducking his head. He replaced her on the sofa, sitting on top of a blanket she had draped over it, and scrubbed his hair best he could. The ears sprang back up, but his hair remained damp, falling into his eyes. It always lost all the product meticulously styled into it every morning when he transformed, but now it hung even longer and flatter than usual.

        He fidgeted with it, trying to spike it into something presentable, but Marinette didn’t seem to notice. Her eyes had gone soft, even vacant, as she sat at her computer chair, knees up and watching him.

        He lowered the towel and squinted at her. “What, do I still have sugar on my mask?”

        “No,” she said, “I’m just still trying to wrap my head around that Chat Noir and I just ran around like five year olds in the rain.”

        He grinned. “Well, like I said, you’re a very lucky girl.”

        She gave a half eyeroll, but she was smiling. “I’ll be less lucky when my parents get home and see the huge mess I made. My mom will probably give me a huge lecture and my dad will just -” she shifted into an impersonation, her brow set angrily and her arms out and bent like she had huge shoulders and muscles. “...Which is worse, sometimes.”

        Chat lay back on the sofa, placing the towel over his eyes. “I know the feeling,” he said. “My father is the king of silent disapproval.”

        “I thought you were an orphan?”

        Chat moved the towel off his face, eyes wide. “Who told you that?”

        He had told Ladybug that once - he had been joking, but she had immediately softened and he just thought … Well, it was _half_ true, wasn’t it? So he hadn’t corrected himself - not that their families came up much. Ladybug didn’t really like talking about anything that had to do with alter egos.

        Marinette, for some reason, was flushing. “I - er. It, it was a rumor? I think Alya told me … uh.” She fixed her eyes on the ceiling. “Is your dad nice?”

        Chat turned onto his side, resting his head on his hand. “This is starting to look like a therapy session.”

        Marinette fished a notebook out of her desk drawer, taking on a faux intellectual voice. “Tell me about your childhood.”

        He fixed the towel back over his eyes. “I was left on the streets of New York City with my -” he stopped. “Are you writing this down?”

        “Oh, of course.” He waited until he heard the sound of a pen scribbling before continuing.

        “... With my siblings. They were eventually adopted but I was left alone to fend for myself. In the rain,” he added, dramatically.

        “What a coincidence.”

        He grinned. “Then I was taken in by a gang of _furriendly_ pickpockets. But during an attempted theft I was found by a rich girl who took me in, but a loan shark and his evil dobermans-”

        The pen stopped. “... That’s the plot of Oliver and Company.”

        He pointed a finger in her direction. “Plagiarism.”

        Marinette clicked her tongue. “Would you say you run around pretending to be a cat as an act of rebellion against your parents?”

        “Nope,” he said.

        Her pen tapped against her notebook. “Your dad is super approving of you running around and making awful cat puns?”

        “Of course,” he said, turning his head away.

        She scoffed. “Is that why you wouldn’t even answer me when I asked if he was nice?”

        Chat faltered, response dying on his tongue, and he heard Marinette’s chair shift.

        “Sorry, that was … I’m sorry.”

        He peeled the towel off his face. “It’s fine,” he said, voice curt. “I’ve just had … it’s been a long week.”

        Her voice was small. “Is … is everything okay with you and Ladybug?”

        “Of course,” he said, quickly. “She’s just … busy. With a secret mission.”

        “I haven’t heard anything about a secret mission,” she said, skeptical.

        He raised an eyebrow. “What, are you telling me you’re best friends with Ladybug?”

        She crossed her arms, as if daring him to disprove it, and then he remembered that Ladybug had been the one to call him and ask him to look after Marinette during the Evillustrator incident – the day they had met. Well, the day Chat and Marinette had met.

        … And, come to think about it, Marinette and Ladybug being pen pals did explain how she knew exactly where to show up the day before. But to ask about it would reveal that he - as Adrien - had seen Ladybug yesterday, so he kept his mouth shut.

        He looked at her, and then put his hands together like he was begging. “But, um, if you _are_ best friends with Ladybug, maybe you could … not, tell her about these little encounters? They can be … our little secret. ”

        Her eyes narrowed. “What exactly is she not supposed to know?”

        He thought back to Monday. “My embarrassing low blood sugar levels?”

        Marinette groaned, frustrated. “You can’t just deflect things with jokes whenever you want to avoid talking.”

        “I can certainly _try_.”

        But the smile slipped off his face almost immediately. All of this - the joking, the playing around, trying to push back what he learned to the very furthest corner of his mind was so _exhausting._

        “Chat?”

        He shook his head. “I’m fine, I’m just … tired.”

        Marinette dropped the notebook on her desk, and started to shift on her chair. Her phone vibrated, so strongly that it almost took a dive off her table, and they both jumped. She picked it up, swiped it to ignore, and replaced it on her table.

        And then it buzzed again.

        Her brow furrowed, and she picked it up without moving her gaze away from Chat, swiping it off again. She put it back on her desk with a note of finality.

        It responded with a louder buzz.

        “... You should probably answer that.”

        She groaned. “I would, but … Why is she even calling this late? And so insistently?”

        “Alya?” he asked, and she nodded. “It must be important. … Ladybug news?” he said, his mouth dry, and she stiffened.

        “... Yeah. Maybe.” She groaned, and then pointed at him. “Hide. She’ll get suspicious if we don’t video-chat.”

        Obeying, he ducked beneath the lounge chair, and watched as she swiped and held the phone out.

        “Hey, Alya.”

        “Girl, where have you been? Who are you ignoring me for?”

        “No one,” Marinette said, her voice leaning on nervous laughter. “What’s up?”

        “Weeeeell,” said Alya. Chat scooted forward on his elbows. The blanket hanging over him blocked him from view, but it ended half an inch from the floor, and he could just _barely_ see Marinette.

        “Spill already,” said Marinette, but she kept glancing back in his direction and didn’t seem particularly invested.

        “I got an email this afternoon,” she said, pausing for dramatic effect. “Guess who?”

        “No clue,” Marinette said, and Chat frowned, curious.

        It hit a second before Alya said the name.

        “Gabriel Agreste! Can you believe it?”

        Marinette’s eyes widened. “ _Are you serious_? Oh my god! What did he want?”

        “That’s the weird part,” Alya said. “It was sent to the Ladyblog. He was asking about _Ladybug._ ”

        Marinette tapped a finger against her bottom lip. “Maybe he wants to make a Ladybug fashion line?” and Chat near swore from his hiding spot, but of _course_ that’s all she thought it was, who would ever expect a fashion designer to be an evil mastermind?

        “That’s what _I_ thought,” she said. “But he seemed more invested in my theory posts. I’m half considering telling him who I think Chat Noir is, ha ha.”

        It took Marinette a second, and then she scowled. “You wouldn’t.”

        “Maybe he’d be more open to it that _some_ people-”

        “It is _ridiculous_ ,” said Marinette.

        “How do you know? Are you super close with Chat Noir all of a sudden?”       

 _Well,_ thought Chat. It depended on how you’d categorize ‘made him hide underneath my furniture’.

        “I know Chat Noir well enough,” said Marinette. “It’s _not_ possible.”

        “Why not?”

        “Because he’d tell me,” said Marinette, but he wasn’t sure if the _he_ was Chat himself or Alya’s theory.

        “Whatever,” Alya dismissed, flapping a hand. “You sure you’re not crushing on Mr. Belt Tail after all?”

        Marinette’s jaw dropped, and her face went red, and Chat found himself scooting himself forward again to hear better.

        “Doesn’t sound like a noooo,” said Alya, sing-song.

        “I - no! No,” she said, and then louder, like she was making sure Chat heard her. “NO.” Alya was laughing. “Fine. Sure. Look, I’ll email Mr. Agreste back-” the name immediately made Chat sober up again, “-and keep you posted. Who knows, maybe this will be the opening we’ve been looking for…?”

        “... Into the fashion industry?”

        “For _Adrien_ , stupid,” Alya said, rolling her eyes, and even though he was _aware_ Alya was his friend and very aware of his existence, it still sounded completely bizarre to hear his name pop up in conversation.

        Marinette looked like she swallowed a lemon.

        “Not that it looks like you’ll need it at this rate,” Alya continued. “With how much you two have been talking …”

        Marinette let out a high laugh. “Yeah! Anyway! Um! Can we - isn’t it kind of weird he’s contacting you out of nowhere?”

        “Yeah,” Alya said. “I _guess_. But who _doesn’t_ love Ladybug? It’s fine. Probably.”

        “Right,” said Marinette. “Yeah, you’re right. And a Ladybug fashion line would be amazing.”

        “Right! Okay, my sisters are trying to murder each other again so I better bounce. Talk to you later. Love ya.”

        “Love you,” Marinette muttered back, and hung up.

        She turned back towards Chat.

        “Shut up,” she said, before he had even finished crawling out from beneath the chair.

        “I didn’t say anything,” he protested, but the grin framing his mask was _more_ than enough.

        “ _Shut upppp_ ,” she groaned, closing her eyes. “That’s not even fair, I would have _never_ let you eavesdrop if I knew what she was going to say.”

        “Ooh,” said Chat, rolling on to his back. “What would you have said if I hadn’t been here, I wonder? Maybe something about this Adrien?”

        Marinette swiped a pillow off the chair and immediately starting beating him with it, chasing after him on her knees. He laughed and wheezed, rolling to try to avoid her hits. It was not a very effective method, especially when her room was so _small_.

        They were both laughing too hard to breathe, and when Marinette collapsed on him, shaking with giggles, all he could do was wonder how they had come this far in only a few days.

        But that was the thing, wasn’t it? He had known Marinette for close to a year, now. It was his own fault for never getting to know her, for making excuses.

        She shifted, and suddenly she was lying with her head on his chest, her hair messy and tousled with strands stuck to her lip, looking a mess and perfectly kissable, and her realized that pretending he hadn’t liked her might have been the biggest damn lie he ever told.

        And he kept playing over that tiny snippet of conversation in his head. Did that mean - was Alya implying - did she _like_ him? Like _Adrien_?

        Why was that …

        Why did that make him feel so miserable?

        It wasn’t because of Ladybug - oh, of course he felt awful whenever he thought about her, a black hole of guilt that grew with every minute - but the thing was that he liked _Marinette._ Bakery Marinette, with her sarcasm and imperfectly perfect pastries.

        And School Marinette liked _Adrien_. With his stuck on smile and his perfect charismatic fashion designer father.

        “What’s wrong?” Marinette said, her head still on his chest. “...Chat? Chat, what’s wrong?”

        “Nothing,” he said, for the millionth time for that week. “Nothing, there’s nothing -”

        Marinette groaned, sitting up. “That’s enough,” she said, shoving her hair out of her face. “I’m sick of hearing it. You are going to tell me what happened.”

        He sat up as well, staring at a spot on her ceiling. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

        “I’m not stupid,” she said. “I know there hasn’t been an attack in a week. So there has to be some other reason you’ve been running around Paris every day, avoiding Ladybug. So what did she _do?”_

        “She didn’t do _anything_. It’s nothing that’s her fault, I was just … it’s just ...” he buried his face in his hands. “It’s personal. It’s just a stupid … she doesn’t need to worry about it.”

        He could see Marinette’s thoughts change, even before she spoke.

        “Are _you_ okay?”

        “No,” he said, at last, his voice sounding tiny and pathetic, without any of the charm or confidence that dripped off Chat Noir’s. His head dropped onto her shoulder, and she stiffened a moment before relaxing, her cheek pressed against his still damp hair.

        “I just wish I never…” He faltered, the words caught in his throat.

        “You never what?”

        “... Forget it,” he said.

        He wished he could go back to before - when the thoughts of his father had slipped from his mind once more and all he could think about how badly he wanted to…

        “Chat,” she said, stirring him from his thoughts. “Look, I know - before this week you barely knew me, and then I tried to hit you with some bread, but … You’ve been coming back every day for a reason, right? We’re friends? You can trust me, I promise I won’t tell anyone. You can tell me anything.”

        He made a face. “No, I can’t. You’re a civilian Marinette, I - we have a duty to keep people safe and out of the way. We’re keeping you out of fights, remember?”

        Her jaw set. “I’m not a _victim_.”

        “Not yet,” he retorted, and she grit her teeth and looked away.

        Marinette stared down at their knees and chewed on her bottom lip, like she wasn’t going to give up on this without a fight.

        He wished she would, wished she’d just forget about this whole thing _and_ him, because the more people he had to protect from his damn father the more horrible he felt. Marinette who lived in the city, wanted to go into fashion, was _thrilled_ at the idea of her best friend talking to his father. She had even won his father’s stupid hat contest - it was too close to comfort, too terrifying for him to think about.

        “Chat?” Marinette said, her voice small.

        “Hm?” he asked, as if stirred from a nightmare.

        “What … what about a secret for a secret?”

        “...What?” What did that even mean? What could she even tell him that would make a difference?

        She shut her eyes and took a deep breath, as if steadying herself. “Tell me what’s wrong. Let me help you. And I’ll tell you who Ladybug is.”

        Chat swore he heard a tiny squeak coming from somewhere in the room, but he couldn’t quite focus on that when her words were ringing in his ears. “ _She told you_?”

        Marinette? The girl who always managed to stay out of these situations, whose _best_ _friend_ ran the most popular Ladybug blog? What had his Lady been thinking?

        … Why had she trusted this girl but not him?

        “Yeah,” she said, her voice small. “She did.”

        He felt something claw at his chest, but it wasn’t elation at the idea of knowing who his Lady was - it wasn’t even disappointment or jealousy at not being the first to know.       

        It was the old fear that had haunted him the past week, back and hungrier than ever.

        Because if he knew Ladybug’s secret identity, he’d have to tell her his.

        And his _father’s._

She would never trust him again.

        She might never _speak_ to him again.

        And even if he didn’t - even if he kept that secret in a desperate attempt to keep her favor - he would be the secret keeper for not only himself and Plagg, but Ladybug as well.

        And his father would see value in his son as anything other than a mannequin for the first time.

        “I don’t see - I don’t see how you telling me who Ladybug is would make a difference about me not being able to tell _you_.”

        Her gaze was steel. “You will.”

        He frowned so deeply he could feel the fabric of his mask crease, and somewhere deep in his mind an explanation unfurled.

        He didn’t listen to it.

        “I … I don’t want to know who she is,” he said. “Not anymore.”

        He ignored the look of heartbreak on her face and stood, willing himself to be cold and unfeeling.

        Like his father always was.

        “Chat-” she began, and he threw the chains over and around his heart, threw the key as far as it could go.

        “I don’t want to talk to you,” he said. “Can’t you just - can’t you just leave me alone?”

        She sputtered, outraged and hurt. “Me - _me_ ? You’re the one who comes here every day, and you won’t - why won’t you just _talk_ to me? I want to help you. _Ladybug_ wants to help you.” She stood, so she could tower over him, fury making her whole body shake.

        “I don’t _want_ your help,” he hissed, and her expression hardened.

        “Fine,” she said.

        “ _Fine_ ,” he repeated, feeling like a child.

        “She’s going to fight you on this too,” she said, her voice low.

        “I know,” he said, standing. “Not looking forward to it.”

        “You’re so frustrating,” Marinette spat, but she was blinking hard and gritting her teeth. Like she was fighting back tears.

        “Marinette…”

        “I don’t want to hear it,” she said, “As _clearly_ anything would be a lie at this point.”

        He hesitated, and then closed the gap between them. She was still staring determinedly at the floor, so he grabbed her by her shoulders, forcing her to give him her attention.

        “Get out of my room,” she said, glaring. He could see the tears in her eyes, and he knew he deserved it, he absolutely deserved it.

        “Marinette,” he said, again, and he realized how rarely he used her name. “Just listen to me, for _five_ seconds.”

        He could feel the words he needed to say forming, and he -

        He _had_ to say it.

        Marinette’s eyes flickered back to him, uncertain.

        The words stung his throat, bitter on his tongue. But he said them anyway.

        _“_ Don’t trust the Agrestes.”

 The anger dropped off her face immediately, replaced with shock. “ _What_?”

        “Just - _please_. They’re not good people, you can’t let Alya or - or anyone else get involved with them.”

        “But - they’re …” she was blinking at him in uncomprehending horror.

        “I know,” he said, because what was Gabriel Agreste better at than maintaining a public image? “But if you trust me,” he said, “If you … if you trust me enough to tell me who Ladybug is, you have to trust me _here_ , with this.”

        And then she nodded, numbly.

        Having delivered the final knife into his heart, he dropped her hands, and took a step back to her window.

        “Did they hurt you?” she said, the words bursting from her mouth. “Chat, did they hurt you?”

        And how could he answer that?

        How could he _ever_ answer that?

        Because - as much as Gabriel Agreste had ignored him over the years, belittled him, and now ordered him around like he was a puppet -

        No one could ever hurt him the way Adrien Agreste did.

        Because what was worse, than to live life day after day and pretend nothing was wrong? To pretend you were perfect, that you were _happy_?

        Marinette seemed to take his silence as a yes, because he could see her heartbreak, see her world fall apart.

        She reached a hand out to him but he didn’t take it, just shook his head and slipped out the window.

        He didn’t look back.

* * *

         He ran until his chest burned and legs ached and both sensations were stronger than the storm brewing in his mind.

        The rain had gotten worse while they were in her room, and now it poured down in droves, covering Paris in a bleary grey.

        He caught his reflection against the ground - a pathetic looking drowned cat, and he released the transformation.

        Plagg dropped into his hands, already tsk-ing. His eyes opened and then narrowed at him, and Adrien released him before he could say anything.

        His nice shoes were already wrecked with mud, and he didn’t even care about the lecture he’d get from Nathalie. Would even be grateful for a moment that would feel _normal,_ like something any kid could hear, anything to distract him from…

        “I told you so,” Plagg said. Adrien ignored him.

        “What did I tell you,” Plagg said louder, like he thought Adrien hadn’t heard him the first time. He hovered right above his shoulder. “You-”

        “I really don’t want to hear it,” said Adrien, barring his shoulders against the rain.

        Plagg clicked his tongue, and didn’t speak for a few minutes. Adrien walked in silence, running over the entire encounter in his head, wondering if there was anything he could have said, anything that she said that could incriminate her-

        “You’re going to tear yourself in two,” Plagg said, the words barely audible over the rain.

        Adrien gave him a grim smile. “I think I already have.”

        Plagg settled himself on Adrien’s shoulder and then gently leaned his head against his cheek.

        “You’ve got some awful luck, Adrien.”

* * *

        His father would be home by the end of the day, his email alerted him as he settled into his seat the next morning. His short burst of freedom was over before it began.

        “Dude,” said Nino, sliding in next to him. “You look like you haven’t slept in a week.”

        Adrien murmured a response, not up to any sort of lie. Not anymore.

        The girls had already taken their seats behind him, but he was too worried to talk to him, too worried to hear what lies Gabriel had fed Alya, too scared to see ..

        “Don’t look now,” Nino whispered. “But Marinette’s glaring a hole into your back. What gives?”

        He looked anyways. Turned around so quickly she didn’t have a chance to change her expression, and he discovered, finally, exactly how Marinette Dupain-Cheng saw him. When their eyes met she quickly glanced down, but there was no blush on her cheeks, no tiny shy smile. Just exhaustion and suspicion drawn across those bright blue eyes and freckled nose.

        In hindsight, it was stupidly obvious that she was never afraid of him.

        … Not until now, at least.

 


End file.
